


Wildfire Across Dry Grasses

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Series: Alberta Bound [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Canada, Cowboys, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was hard not to know when something was up; gossip spread like wildfire across dry grasses, but even without, newcomers were easy to spot when less than a hundred people lived in town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildfire Across Dry Grasses

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise, written for [](http://afra-schatz.livejournal.com/profile)[**afra_schatz**](http://afra-schatz.livejournal.com/) for the 2011 [](http://wordsontongue.livejournal.com/profile)[**wordsontongue**](http://wordsontongue.livejournal.com/) exchange. Sean is an Alberta-based rancher circa the mid-to-late 1800s, living quietly not far from a small but burgeoning town on the [unfinished transcontinental railway line](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canadian_Pacific_Railway). Generously beta'd by [](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/profile)[**savageseraph**](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/). ("Brownie" is the name of the stunt horse that stepped in for Uraeus during the drowned!Aragorn scenes in TTT.)

  


"Miss Tyler." Sean touched the brim of his hat as he passed the young woman, slowing down long enough to breathe in her scent, the faintest hint of rosewater and _girl_ mingling with the green of grass and shoots crushed underfoot. He fancied he saw a little bit of fancy in her eyes as she nodded his way and found himself just barely managing to smother the knowing smile that threatened to tug up the corners of his mouth. She was undeniably lovely, but if he hadn't been collared by a woman after all these years, there weren't going to be any leashes slipped over his head anytime soon.

He rolled his shoulders, sighing. It was always so tiresome, dealing with people. What he wouldn't give to be back up on the ranch right now, instead of grappling with the frustrations of management. He felt worn and weighed down by his time with John, for as much as he liked the man and had no problems selling stock to him, his booming voice made Sean's head ache. An hour was all he could stand, cooped up in the Rhys-Davies' front room, eating delicate crustless sandwiches and sipping weak tea while struggling to keep the conversation on track. They'd settled on a purchase of two hundred head of beef cattle, and only fifty of dairy. A far smaller number than John had purchased last season, but not much of a surprise, given the delay of the railway. With planning at a standstill, John's fortunes had hit a downturn, and it was pure goodwill that kept his hand in other businesses right now.

At the first opportunity, Sean had clapped his hat on his head and his palm in John's, fleeing his rooms for the safety of the open air. He'd planned on making haste back to the homestead, but instead he found himself taking a turn up Main Street, towards the public stables, following his nose.

It was hard not to know when something was up; gossip spread like wildfire across dry grasses, but even without, newcomers were easy to spot when less than a hundred people lived in town. New faces stuck out like parrots amongst the chickadees, and his current crop of hands had been chattering about it for days. He'd caught sight of a few of them on his ride into town, queer clothes, queerer expressions, each one carrying bemusement like a cloak. The rumour sweeping through the trading post like a dust devil was that this lot of strangers had filled the Blooms' boarding house to brimming. If the word in the wind was right, it was all down to some vaudeville or rodeo show moving on through, heading for the coast.

Kicking at a tumbleweed as it rolled past his boot, Sean glanced up at a movement to his right. There, in front of the stables, was a stranger on a beautiful bay. Horse and rider ambled to a stop, and as Sean watched, the bay stepped lightly to the side, the rider doffed his hat, and a moment later both mare and man dipped and bowed as one for an imaginary audience.

Chuckling, Sean applauded. He was rewarded as the horse wheeled around, the man grinning from ear to ear. Once they'd closed the distance, the rider slipped out of the saddle and stuck his hand out, utterly without a lick of embarrassment at being caught performing for no one.

"My name's Viggo, and this is Brownie," he stroked the bay's neck, "We're with the rodeo." At that, he nodded towards the centre of town, as if that explained everything.

Sean supposed, on reflection, that it did.

Obligingly, he gripped Viggo's hand, noting the sureness in his touch, the calluses on his palm; here was a man with no doubts in his abilities, and no illusions either. The handshake was brief, and Sean felt a small tug of disappointment as Viggo withdrew his warmth. He glanced at the mare, who shifted and snorted beside them. "She's beautiful," he murmured, eyeing her appreciatively, all muscle and shiny coat.

"She's an old girl," Viggo sighed, turning into her, clapping a hand against her side. "Her days on the circuit are quickly coming to an end." He smiled a bit ruefully as he added, so soft Sean had to prick his ears, "Maybe mine are too."

Sean tilted his head to the side, gaze flickering over Viggo's features. There was something wistful in the man's smile, something mournful caught in the corners of his eyes. For someone still so fully in the prime of life, there seemed to be a touch of the Old World in him. A spark of something indefinable, something faerie-like lurking just behind his eyes. If the way he held himself, the way he spoke hadn't so obviously marked him as from those United States, Sean would be wondering what strange desires had drawn him so far across the waters and away from the ancient forests and dales.

Sean shook his head like a dog shaking off a drenching, dislodging the errant thought. What he was seeing in this man most likely wasn't even there; it was a curious longing, nothing more. He'd been alone for so long that what was once a blessing of silence sometimes seemed a curse. As much as he enjoyed the quiet of winter, the privacy of singlehood, the spring and summer months increasingly brought a prickling tickle of yearning for a companion of his own kind.

If he had a lick of sense left in him, he would sell off the land and herd, pack up every stitch and start the long journey back, whether those he'd left behind would welcome him or not.

With a tiny twitch, Sean came back to his surroundings at the sound of throat-clearing. He felt his face warm as he realized he'd missed whatever had just been asked of him. His mouth opened and closed, and he hoped for one long second that the right answer might spontaneously and miraculously pop out. Instead, he found himself doing a passable imitation of a fish.

Viggo, however, seemed to take a little pity on him. His expression was warm, encouraging. "...You have a name, don't you?"

Sean swallowed, relief flooding through his body at Viggo's small kindness, releasing him from the hook instead of leaving him to twist. This was not going to turn into another of those awkward encounters, not like that horrible afternoon with the Bloom boy. Still, he found himself nodding dumbly before he finally remembered to say, "Sean."

Viggo smiled. "Sean." He drawled the name as if he was rolling it across his tongue, tasting the curves and edges, " _Sean_. I like it." His smile became a grin. "Want to help me settle the old girl in, Sean?"

Viggo's grin was infectious, and before Sean knew it, he was fussing over the bay, loping off to retrieve a fresh bucket of water and some new straw for her before finally leaning against the stall gate, watching Viggo curry her coat.

They passed a companionable afternoon that way, trading quiet words over Brownie's back, then later while perched on the fence of a nearby paddock. Sean learned quickly that Viggo had a tendency to ramble, as if compelled to trace the journeys his feet had taken in the rolling hills and valleys and winding paths of his words. It was hard following at first, untangling the firm facts from the routes and reroutes, but after a while, Sean found himself letting the cool stream of syllables simply pour over him, Viggo's voice soothing and gentling him as if he were another horse. Before long, he knew much of Viggo's background, how he'd left the failing family farm the moment he showed the first spark of talent at roping cows, and how he'd been sending what winnings he could back that way for as long as he'd been on the circuit.

It was almost irresistible, Sean's urge to lean into this strange stranger, to rub up against his side as if he were marking territory. Maybe it was his voice, or his scent, or his simple acceptance of Sean's silences; he'd been as circumspect as ever, preferring to keep all but the broadest strokes of his life cupped close to his chest, and yet not once all afternoon had Viggo prodded too deeply.

He was oddly content to spend his time in Viggo's company, comfortable in letting the ranch run itself for just one day. The prairie rolled out, away from the paddock beneath them, the wood fence slats rough under his hands. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with clear, sweet air and what he was rapidly coming to think of as Viggo's own musk: leather and salt-sweat, dust and new-mown hay, the scent of a man more at home with horses than humanity. A handful of hours in Viggo's presence, and Sean already knew he'd miss it once Viggo had moved on.

So he concentrated hard on the curve of Viggo's jaw, the way his stubble scattered away from the old scar that cut across his lip, the slight hitch in his breathing before each swallow, the way his throat worked as he spoke. Sean found himself entranced by Viggo's laugh, the sound of his voice, and more than once he caught himself ready to reach out and trace the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

He was so determined to catalogue and remember, to preserve the now so he could conjure it up later that he failed to notice that Viggo had fallen silent and was leaning towards him, wetting his lips. It wasn't until Viggo's mouth pressed against his own and his arms had wound themselves around Viggo's back that he realized what was happening and managed to pull away.

"You-- you don't want this?" A cloud passed over Viggo's features, uncertainty settling on his brow for the first time since they'd met. "I thought... All afternoon..." He shook his head, frowning at the ground, and Sean was seized by the desire to smooth the worry lines away.

Instead, he smiled and patted Viggo's hand, chuckled as he jumped down from the fence. "Of course I do," he murmured, "But it's been a long time since you've stayed in one place, hmm? I'll still have to live here, even after you've gone." He winked, glanced around, and noting they were quite alone, he nodded towards the stables. "Come on. I think I saw an empty stall."

Sean wet his lips, sure he could almost taste Viggo's confusion in the air before he cottoned on to what was on offer. The wings of a tiny bird fluttered in Sean's chest as Viggo's frown melted clear away, a glacier giving way under the heat of the summer sun.

Picking up his pace, eagerness flooded through Sean as he passed into the shadowed coolness of the stables. Heading for the darkness of the furthest corner, he dimly registered the whickering and shifting of horses catching wind of his desire. He didn't turn back until he'd gained the last empty stall, but there, no more than two steps behind, was Viggo.

Once the gate's metal latch clicked in place, there was no reason to waste time searching for words. Viggo closed the distance between them, every inch of him the predator, canines flashing in a wide wolfish smile. His callused fingers tugged insistently at Sean's braces, his shirt, wool rasping against denim as it slipped up and past Sean's waist. Taking advantage of Viggo's distraction as he tussled with Sean's clothes, Sean doffed his hat and safely hooked it on a post, then walked Viggo towards the back of the stall. He pressed Viggo firmly up against the rough slats, revelling in the quiet exhale of breath as Viggo's body thumped against the wood. Sean ducked his head, nuzzling at Viggo's jaw, nipping at the tender, warm skin beneath his ear.

Still nipping and sucking at Viggo's throat, salt and sweat urging him on, pressing him to taste every inch he could reach, Sean worked blindly at the fastenings of Viggo's own shirt. Each button, each hook and eye slipped its bonds under his hands, the scratch of flannel a constant tease. Sean groaned as Viggo's palm slid against his abdomen, up his chest, seeking and finding bare skin. His breath caught as Viggo's fingertip plucked at an already-hardening nipple, making it all but impossible to think. Yet instinct kept his own hands moving ever lower, seeking out and finding the front of Viggo's trousers, tracing the outline of Viggo's cock. Sean cupped him then, luxuriating in the weight, the heat against his hand, evidence of an eagerness Sean longed to tap.

A light squeeze had Viggo tipping his head back, hat tumbling off as its brim grazed the wall. Viggo's throat worked in a soundless moan, heedless of the loss. Sean had a flash of even more indecent ways to have this man, and for a brief moment, he was taken aback as a whole life rolled out before him, a vision of a world where he was no longer alone.

A heartbeat later, Viggo thrust against his hand, narrowing Sean's world back down to a point. He nipped once more at the base of Viggo's throat, licking at the hollow before moving on to his collarbone. Sean revelled in the short, sharp breaths each scrape of teeth coaxed from deep in Viggo's chest. The urge to bind Viggo, trap him, press him down and never let him up again surged through Sean's veins, and he caught himself licking his lips, wanting so badly to mark Viggo, a blossom of bruises that would linger long after the two of them had parted. He pressed his full weight against Viggo, earning a soft protest, removing his hand to give himself room to rub against Viggo's groin. He could feel the smirk spread across his face as Viggo hissed, certain that Viggo could feel the brush if it against his neck. He raised his head long enough to claim Viggo's lips, slipping his hand behind Viggo's head, cupping there, immobilizing him long enough to kiss him deeply, thoroughly, an exploration of a new country, mapping territory he might never visit again.

Sean groaned as he released Viggo's mouth, breathing the scent of him in deep even as he shifted his hips, listening for the telltale hitches and moans that told him what Viggo liked best. It wasn't long before the two of them were moving together, cloth sliding against cloth, prickling against skin, Viggo's arms slung around his shoulders, holding on as if once he let go, he'd drown.

Their breathing, now mingled, grew louder in the silence of the stable, punctuated only by the rustle and murmur of horses no more than a stone's throw away. Viggo shuddered, whimpered, even as his stubble scraped against Sean's cheek. Sean felt the warmth of an exhale as Viggo parted his lips, Sean's ears pricking at the silent promise of words. They rocked harder, rougher against each other, legs tangling together until only luck kept them upright, and still Sean heard nothing but ragged breath as Viggo rubbed his cheek against Sean's jaw. Sean swallowed, seized by the desire to fill in the silence until it engulfed them both, a sandy sinkhole from which they'd never climb free. Yet just as he drew enough breath to form words, Viggo sank his teeth into Sean's earlobe, making him cry out.

The sharp pierce of pain caught Sean out, a river of fire sliding down his spine, dissolving his last scraps of control. His hips jerked, every muscle in his body tensing, his toes curling as he shuddered, swept along in a wave of pleasure tinged with an edge of something more.

When he came back to himself, he wasn't certain how long he had lost sense, but he was sure the lazy, satisfied smile on Viggo's face mirrored his own. He sighed, resting his head on Viggo's shoulder, and as one clumsy being, they slid to the straw-covered floor.

Sean waited until Viggo slid into a light doze to untangle himself. It took only a handful of minutes to right his clothes, retrieve his hat, and one moment more to dust a quick kiss across Viggo's forehead. He smiled wistfully as he paused at the stall door, taking one last long look at Viggo, sprawled across the straw. Biting his lip, Sean made his slow way back to the stable door, pausing only once to bid Brownie good luck and a quiet goodbye.

Even in the face of everyone's troubles, the promising prosperity of railways fading rapidly from the aging town's mind, Sean's homestead was always more than enough work to keep worries an arm's breadth away. He spent the sunny week that followed immersed in his own business, rows of tiny crises, a mountain of small tasks carrying him from piercing dawn to deepest dusk. If he worked a little harder, chopped wood they wouldn't need a little more often, if he carried and curried and rode and ranged well into the night, not one of his hands saw fit to mention it. He kept himself to himself, just as always, and the smartest among them, the seasonals that would be welcomed back after sleet and snow and shoots of green sprung up once again knew better than to queer a good thing.

Besides, it wasn't as if Sean's moods didn't shift with the passage of the moon and the stars. This would pass, just as it always did, an unsettled, unformed desire fading into a background of ever-present longing. He could taste it in his tea, in burnt coffee and runny eggs at breakfast, in musky mutton shank and gritty cornbread at dinner; a bitter, stinging sharpness that flooded his mouth with every stray thought of his own cold future. Before too long, he found he could drown it out only with the sedative of bone-wearying work, or more shots than he ought of his very best whiskey. Halfway through the week, hauling feed up from storage, he overheard his youngest hands lamenting the loss of the rodeo. The troupe had moved on, just as Sean had known they would, and although it had been inevitable, he was overwhelmed by that selfsame bitterness welling up until it threatened to choke him. He barked at the boys, harsher than intended, sending them scattering back to work, and slouched his way back to the ranch house, whiskey bottle already swimming in his mind's eye.

He had his hand on the door, palm pressed against the wood when he heard the first whistle. He frowned, ready to be annoyed, not willing to be pulled out of his orbit around a bracing gulp of liquid calm. Sean closed his eyes, steadying himself, knowing his current mood would lead to no good, and he needed to employ his workers at least until the end of the season. But he could not help but turn at the second whistle, as if to a siren's call, blinking into the sun, irritation rising involuntarily despite his better nature.

At first, all he could discern was an outline, trotting up the trail, horse and rider slowing even as they closed the distance. Sean's forehead furrowed and he took a half-step, then another, each small step turning into a stride that gained speed alongside indignation, a desire to throw this interloper off his land. He kicked at dirt and grass alike, heedless of the thick scent of mulch and crushed weed that clung to him, carried along by a rising tide of anger. His body flushed hot, muscles tight and trembling, a nameless ire at the thought of his home and time invaded.

Yet as rider and horse slowed to a stop, Sean pulled up short, tripped up by the sight in front of him, unable to believe his own eyes as man and mare dipped, very deliberately, in a familiar sweeping bow.

Sean squinted hard in the light, his visitors' features coming clear, his own sense finally, breathlessly catching up. The man atop the saddle grinned down at him for a long second, then slipped from his perch and thumped to the ground. His boots kicked up a little cloud of dust, and Sean felt an answering stirring in his chest, a whirlwind of a shadow of hope for something he didn't dare think on.

"Hi," the man said, sticking out his hand, "I'm Viggo. Recently unemployed and looking for work. And this is Brownie," he stroked the fingers of his free hand down the bay's neck, "She's a little long in the tooth, but she has a story like you've never heard."

Sean took the proffered palm, wrapping his fingers around its warmth, reacquainting himself with the callused sureness of the touch. He gripped Viggo's hand tighter even as he tugged him forward into a hug, thumping him on the back, a surge of sweetness tinging his tongue. "Funny you should ask," he breathed against Viggo's ear, "as I'm in need of a good hand, and we always have room for another seasoned mare." Sean lips brushed against Viggo's jaw, a teasing taste of salt, dust and freshly-mown hay. He felt a band loosen deep in his chest, words that he thought he would never say bubbling up like a newfound spring. "You might be exactly what I'm looking for."


End file.
